In Plain Sight
by abrynne
Summary: Sam and Dean travel to New York City after reading about your usual mysterious death. Only now, their numbers are up, which involves Team Machine in a hunt that no one was prepared for.
1. Standard Procedure

Jackie put the page binder away, and stacked up the freshly bound reports she had promised Mr. Lamper would be finished and on his desk first thing in the morning.

The reports were tucked snuggly under her arm as she stepped through the door, into his now empty office. Most everyone had gone home earlier that evening. And now that Jackie was finished, she was finally going home.

The reports were set neatly upon Mr. Lamper's desk, the lights turned off, and the office door locked before she grabbed her purse and coat, and took the elevator down to the parking garage underneath the building.

Jackie didn't have a car there, she usually took the subway. But the parking garage had an exit on the back end of the building, which let her out closer to the station. It was a path Jackie had taken many times, and this evening was no different.

The garage was silent save for the clicking of Jackie's heels on the concrete. She fiddled with the strap of her purse when she felt a strong gust of wind come from overhead, as if something had flown past her.

Jackie stopped and looked up. Concrete beams and supports created a crisscross of shadows overhead. There was nothing else to see.

"Probably a bird or something," she mumbled as she smoothed her hair back, and continued through the garage.

_Tap-tap-tap,_ Jackie's heels moved faster toward the garage exit. _Tap-tap_ –she stopped when she heard the flutter of wings, and felt the strange breeze again. Something else clicked against the concrete. Jackie knew it was something else because she wasn't moving and there was no one else to be seen.

"Is someone there?" she asked. "Chris? Is that you?" Jackie peered around one of the support pillars, but saw no one. "Creepy bastard," she muttered to herself.

She reached into her purse and grabbed a hold of a Taser. Being a native of New York City, Jackie had seen her share of creeps and scary situations. This would be no different. She could handle it.

More tapping caused Jackie to whip herself around, Taser at the ready. But it was already in front of her. A great, black, winged shadow towered over her, nearly taking up the whole of her vision.

Jackie backed away and turned the Taser on as she screamed.

The Taser had no effect on the figure as it bore down upon Jackie like a great black ghost. But it wasn't a ghost. Jackie felt the warmth from it as it covered her mouth with a calloused hand, and the brushing of what she would have sworn was leathery wings that surrounded her. But that was impossible. People didn't have wings.

The Taser was pulled from her and dropped on the ground as the dark figure put its face next to hers. Even this close, Jackie couldn't tell who or what it was. Its eyes were black, and seemed to absorb whatever light entered them, and its face was hooded, so Jackie could only see a black shadow with a vague shape that indicated a mouth.

"Sh. Listen," it said gently, pressing a finger to its lips as its other hand covered Jackie's mouth. The voice was surprisingly pleasant, and held no malice whatsoever.

"You have a beautiful soul," it said softly.

Jackie didn't struggle. It wouldn't do to upset it. She squeaked, making small muffled noises underneath its hand as it put its lips to her ear.

What started as a soft, clear note grew and grew until it was deafening. The sound of it reverberated off of the walls of the garage, shattering car windows and causing alarms to go off. Jackie screamed, but she was drowned out in the sound that thudded in her chest and rattled her brains until her eyes closed and she went limp.

The figure allowed her to fall to the ground. Jackie lay on her side, dead. Her once terrified eyes frozen, staring blankly at the concrete as blood trickled from her ears and nose.

* * *

Summer didn't fade like it should have. It seemed to have turned itself off, like someone flipped a switch. And autumn instantly took its place with chill winds, morning frosts, and afternoon rain.

In other words, it was October in New York City.

The rain never bothered him. He pushed his scarf closer around his neck as he walked – well, limped his way to the locked gate of the abandoned building. Harold Finch unlocked the gate and went inside the library.

Thinking for the hundredth time that he should get someone to clean up the main level – books shouldn't be treated like trash, thrown haphazardly upon the floor – he mounted the stairs, and began his slow ascent, keeping his stiff posture as he did so.

The lights were already on in the makeshift office which he and John have affectionately referred to as HQ for the past four years.

Harold made it to the landing and walked into their office to see John's feet propped up on his desk, and a thick book in his hands. John Reese looked engrossed in the book, the title of which Harold couldn't see from where he stood.

"Morning, Finch," John said without looking up.

"I'm trying to decide if your proactivity is a good or a bad thing, Mr. Reese." He cleared his throat softly, and John, getting the hint, let his feet drop to the floor and stood as Harold took his place.

"Come on Finch, out of the two of us you're closer to the evil overlord type." John smiled a little and leaned against the window sill.

"We have two numbers that came in early this morning. I think you'll find them to be right up your alley, as it were."

Harold woke up the computer and began typing away at the keyboard as window after window popped up on the half dozen monitors that sat upon the desk. John leaned over Harold's shoulder to get a better look.

"There are dozens of aliases for each of them. Credit cards, IDs, passports – "

"That's a dangerous hobby," John commented.

"After digging for a few minutes, I believe I found the true identities of our numbers. They are brothers. Dean Henry Winchester is the elder. Born in Lawrence Kansas in nineteen seventy nine. His brother, Samuel Jonathan Winchester, is four years younger, born in nineteen eighty three. He was a student at Stanford until his junior year."

"Wait, wait Finch, it says here that they died back in two thousand eleven," John pointed at a specific window and Harold brought it to the main screen.

The details weren't too specific, but apparently, after a killing spree across the country, the Winchesters were both killed in a police station that they apparently tried to escape from.

"Yes. It was confirmed by the authorities. Perhaps someone has stolen their identities."

"Maybe," John agreed with a slow nod. "Their many identities. But who would want the identities of two murderers?"

"Well, Mr. Reese, there is obviously much more going on here, hence our habit of researching the numbers first."

John suppressed a smile at Harold's ever obvious sarcasm as Harold dug deeper at the history of the Winchesters. The pair of them stared at the past of what was beginning to look like the two strangest numbers the Machine had given them yet.

* * *

Late in the morning after Jackie's death, two tall men wearing cheap suits parked across the street from the building in which the murder took place.

"I hate big cities," Dean Winchester said to no one in particular. He glanced around at the buildings and the crowded sidewalks that surrounded him. "Everything's all closed in on you. I can't breathe here, man."

"You're breathing just fine," Sam said dismissively as he shut the squeaky car door on the passenger side.

"Yeah, but it's like breathing through one of Bobby's old shirts."

Sam's nose wrinkled slightly at the idea as they strode across the street toward the office building, and entered.

Dean coughed dramatically on his way down the steps into the parking garage and Sam smiled a little. "So you want to live on the open range with your dog named Fido?"

"Shut up," Dean said automatically.

"And there's the little piglet you nursed to health because it was rejected by its mother – "

"Shut up. And who names their dog _Fido_?"

They approached the section of the parking garage that was taped off and assumed their standard professional behavior.

_If you act like you own the place, people will assume that you do_. The statement went through Sam's mind as he and Dean lifted up the yellow crime scene tape and stepped under it.

A patrolman instantly accosted them, but Sam and Dean had been through the routine several times before and reached for their fake badges.

"I'm agent Lloyd, this is agent Fox," he said, gesturing to Sam. "We're investigating a chain of murders, and we think this one might fit the MO."

The officer squinted at the badges as Sam and Dean flipped them open and closed again. The only thing that policeman truly could have made out were the big letters "FBI" printed above the badge. And yet, he let them pass into the crime scene, just like everyone else did. It was all Sam could do not to smile.

"Detective," the patrolman called, waving his hand to gain the attention of a woman who was examining the crime scene.

She wore the standard blue latex gloves, a black coat and scarf, and blue slacks. She stood, and approached Sam and Dean with slight suspicion

"Detective Carter," she said shortly. "I didn't think this warranted federal concern."

She was baiting them. Sam saw it. Dean, Sam was pretty sure, did not.

"We think it may be linked to a case we're working on," Dean didn't miss a beat.

"Right. There was another one like this at a local bank a few days ago, right?" Sam asked, giving Carter a hint that they did indeed do their homework.

Carter lifted her dark eyebrows. "Well, you're welcome to take a look." The suspicion didn't leave her expression as she led them to the crime scene.

Dried blood stained the ground next to a support column and a white sedan. Smudges of a darker substance shared the space with the blood. The body itself was gone. It had already been taken to the morgue.

"Jacqueline Rhodes," Carter said as if she was reading off a ledger. "Twenty-two years old, single, worked in the building upstairs. She was working late last night and was killed right here, on her way to the train station. They're examining the body now. From what we can tell her eardrums burst from exposure to a certain sound frequency at high volume, which also caused a hemorrhage in her brain, which is what killed her."

The suspicion then left her expression and Carter shrugged. "It's all a little weird if you ask me. There is blood left from her ears and nose, and some fecal matter on the ground. And that's about it."

"Nothing else on the body?" Sam asked.

"Nothing yet."

"Fecal matter?" Dean asked. Sam had to restrain his eye roll.

"The vic crapped herself." Another detective, short, stalky, with curly brown hair approached them, already having listened to their conversation thus far.

"Detective Fusco, these are agents from the FBI," Carter said with a quick glare at him.

"So they're saying that the sound caused the hemorrhaging too?" Sam asked.

"It's not confirmed yet, but there's no other evidence that contradicts that. As far as anyone can tell Jacqueline was perfectly healthy."

Sam and Dean walked in a wide circle around the crime scene as Sam thought. Nothing he already knew about matched this type of murder. Except the fact that it was weird, of course.

"Brown Sound," he muttered.

"What?" Carter asked.

"Brown Sound," Sam said louder, meeting the detective's eyes. "There's a theory that sound at a certain frequency can actually – well … loose the bowels of the victim. With the busted eardrums, it's crazy, but it seems to fit."

"Doesn't seem like a theory anymore, does it?" Fusco said.

Sam and Dean shook their heads in unison as they stared at the stains on the ground.

* * *

"Fecal matter?"

Dean's discomfort reared its head once they were back in the car. "What kind of a ghost or monster makes somebody poop to death?"

"That's not what happened," Sam said calmly.

"Not only that, but it's a _sound_ that did it? I mean, okay, I've listened to some music that made me want to – "

Sam and Dean met each other's eyes as they looked away from the windshield at the same time, and Dean stopped himself.

"- want to, you know, _all over_ that band, but involuntary poop is not something we normally deal with."

"Dude! It's not about the poop!" Sam snapped. "It's about the sound. Her eardrums burst, and the damn thing killed her."

Dean hadn't started the engine in the Impala yet. They had been sitting there shouting about feces and going absolutely nowhere.

"Do you know what it would take to create a sound like that?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, then decided against it. He repeated this process two more times before Sam was satisfied that he didn't know the solution.

"I'm not an expert, but I think it would take some special equipment to project a sound so loud and at such a specific frequency to kill a person."

"And make them poop themselves," Dean added, holding up a finger and thus illustrating his point. "So you're saying that either someone hauled a bunch of sound equipment into that garage to kill that girl, or there's something else going on."

"Basically, yeah."

"You know, if you had asked me yesterday, I would have said that we've seen pretty much everything by now." Dean smiled tragically and shook his head. "This looks like something new, and I _hate_ new," he continued.

"Did you check - ?

"Dad's journal doesn't have anything close to this," Dean cut him off.

"Fine," Sam said, feeling his patience fleeing. "I'll go to the morgue and look at the body. You stay here and interview the victim's coworkers. Okay?"

Dean nodded and tossed the car keys to Sam as he got out of the driver's seat.

* * *

John Reese sat in driver's seat of a black Lincoln that was parked down the street from what he recognized as a black Chevrolet Impala from the late sixties, judging by the look of it. He watched the so called "agents" exit the parking garage go back into the car.

John checked his phone. He had cloned Dean Winchester's cell and partook in the conversation that commenced once the brothers got into their car.

"They don't sound much like federal agents, do they?" John said casually.

"They aren't," Finch confirmed via John's earpiece. "But they infiltrate crime scenes, and begin gathering evidence for a case of their own."

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" John grinned at the windshield of his car. "I doubt the bureau would allow a haircut like that anyway."

"Shouldn't matter as long as it's neat," Finch commented offhandedly. "I've been digging a little deeper into the history of our would be vigilantes, and it seems like they reappear on the map after they've fallen off for a time. Events that have surrounded these two tend to be very … odd, from what I understand."

"Define odd, Finch," John said.

"It's a little difficult to explain."

"That's new for you, isn't it?"

"Mr. Reese, I'd appreciate it if you took this situation a little more seriously," Finch switched into his college lecturer voice in less than a second. John knew it all too well and stared at the ceiling of the car as Finch went on. "There are strange circumstances that have to do with these two men. I will do my best to sort it out and come up with some answers. But until then I urge you to use caution around them. And at any rate it sounds like they're splitting up."

"Yeah, I'll get Fusco to keep tabs on the one here while I follow the bigger one to the morgue."

John started the engine as the Impala pulled into the street. He knew that Finch was avoiding discussing the obvious, just as he was. These two guys, these brothers were strange enough – crime-solving vigilantes who didn't seem to have a home to go to as far as Finch could tell. Not to mention the "strange circumstances" that surrounded them. That was plenty weird without bringing "ghosts" and "monsters" into it. Was it code? Did the Winchesters already believe they were being tailed? Whatever it was, John couldn't deny what he heard.


	2. New

Dean made his way past the front desk and into the offices of the tax law firm where Jacqueline Rhodes worked until very recently. He came upon her desk only to find someone wrestling with disconnecting the computer monitor.

"Excuse me," Dean said clearing his throat.

The culprit, a woman with red hair, wearing a floral skirt and sheer blouse, looked guiltily up at him, her hands clutching the monitor.

"Is this Jacqueline's desk?"

"Not anymore, is it?" Red said smartly.

Dean failed in restraining his scowl. "You're taking her computer?"

Red shrugged casually as she stood and adjusted her blouse. "Just the monitor. It's a lot better than the one I have, and I figured I'd have to stake claim to it before anyone else does. No offense intended or anything, it's just office politics, you know. I'm at the bottom of the food chain, so to speak."

"Right," Dean said skeptically. "I'm Agent Lloyd, I wanted to speak to Jacqueline's boss."

"Agent?" Her interest piqued, Red stepped closer to him. "Smart _and_ pretty. Must be my lucky day."

Dean cleared his throat. His experience with women was extensive, yet he preferred to be the one making the advances. While a woman who saw what she wanted and then just went after it was a bit of a turn on, the entire concept slightly terrified him as well. "Jacqueline's boss," he managed to say as he regained his cool.

"Mr. Lamper," Red smiled, making Dean blink rapidly, and nodded at the glass door just behind Jackie's desk.

Once Dean moved away Red began wrestling with the monitor once again. Yeah, her points were all valid, and someone else would probably pounce on that monitor pretty soon anyway. But for some reason, he didn't think it was right to start looting the woman's desk when she hadn't even been dead for twenty four hours.

"Horace Lamper" was etched into the glass on the office door. Dean tapped on it with his knuckles and opened the door before getting an answer.

"Mister Lamper? I'm Agent Lloyd, I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"I didn't kill her if that's what you're going to ask!"

Dean stopped short and lifted his eyebrows.

Lamper's anxious face stared back at him from behind his desk. Then, slowly, he relaxed a little, mopping his large forehead with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry. I've just – well, I've already spoken to the police. They've confirmed my alibi. I wasn't here last night. Well, yes I was here, but not after six."

Dean held up his hands peacefully. "I just wanted to ask you about Jacqueline. A few simple questions, okay?"

Mr. Lamper calmed a little and nodded, gesturing for Dean to have a seat in front of his desk.

Dean eased his way slowly and carefully into the room and into the chair as if Mr. Lamper was a sleeping tiger he was trying not to disturb. "How long have you known Jacqueline?"

"Jackie," Mr. Lamper said. The handkerchief was out again, mopping the enormous forehead. "I can't believe she's gone, just like that," Lamper snapped his fingers. "I've known her for over a year. That's when she started working here. Always did a good job. Finished projects on time. I'm a very forgetful person, so it was good to have her as my assistant. She kept me focused."

"Do you know of anyone here in the office that might not have liked her? Might have wanted to hurt her?"

Lamper's eyes widened in shock. "Oh no, nothing like that! She was well liked here. There were occasional office pranks and that sort of thing, but nothing, you know, lethal. She was here last night finishing up a project that I needed by this morning."

He sighed sadly and touched a bound stack of papers on his desk. "These reports were ready and waiting on my desk this morning. But Jackie wasn't here. She usually is by the time I get here."

"What about Jackie's family?" Dean tried to steer the subject away from the office.

"I think she just has an aunt who lives upstate. No other family that I know of. I know that she was alone a lot of the time. I felt bad for her. That's why I invited her to have dinner with my family a few times. She only took me up on it once." Lamper absently touched a silver frame that sat on his desk. The picture in the frame was of a pretty, freckled woman with curly, chestnut hair, and a young boy. "But she never seemed to mind it."

"Have you noticed anything weird around the office recently?"

"Weird?"

Dean shrugged. "You know, out of the ordinary? Strange smells, cold spots, noises?"

Lamper's eyes darted wildly around the room for a moment before he answered. "Should I have?"

"No," Dean gave up and stood. "That's all right. Thanks for your time."

* * *

Sam and Dean met up at their motel, both with very unsuccessful visits to the morgue and interviewing witnesses.

Dean took off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the bed. He began undoing his neck tie as Sam sat down at a small table next to the window with his laptop.

"I _hate_ new!" Dean declared as he fell backwards onto one of the beds, and began staring at the ceiling. "And that's the last time you're taking Baby without me in this town. Taxis are freaking expensive!"

"So there was nothing where she worked?" Sam's eyes were on the laptop monitor as he spoke.

"No, just a nervous boss, and a whole lot of nothing else," Dean said. "She's got no family around here, and as far as I can tell no reason that anyone would have wanted to hurt her."

"Yeah, it was basically the same for me. The body was completely untouched except for what Detective Carter already told us."

"She kind of seemed at a loss, didn't she?" Dean said.

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

Dean then sat up and blinked a few times before turning his head robotically to Sam. "What about Cas?"

Sam frowned. Castiel was their friend, an angel, very familiar with creatures even they, the Winchesters had never encountered, and therefore a very useful ally. But – "He's been a little twitchy lately. I'm not sure if – "

"Just call him, and if he doesn't show he doesn't show," Dean shrugged.

"No you don't," Sam shook his head and lifted his hands up in front of him. "You call him, it was your idea."

"You're the one who can't find anything on this thing!"

Sam pursed his lips and glared at his brother as he held back a sharp retort. Dean's technique concerning "the argument" was an art form. The longer it went on, the more illogical his argument became, and in the end, all you got for your trouble was a load of confusion and the desire to punch him in the jaw.

"Fine," Sam sighed and closed his eyes. "Cas, um, it's us. We're facing something here we've never seen before. If you're not too busy – "

"_Not too busy?"_

"I don't want to piss him off," Sam hissed.

"If you could come and help us out, that'd be great," Sam completed his unorthodox prayer and opened his eyes.

The only other person in the room was Dean, just as it had been before.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Looks like he's too busy." He lay back down on the bed in a huff as a man dressed in a loose-fitting suit and a trench coat came walking out of the adjoining bathroom.

Sam grinned. "You know, I think you wait a little on purpose, just to hear what we say about you when we don't think you're going to show up."

Dean shot up like someone had jabbed a pin into his back.

"Hello," Castiel said. "Thank you for giving me the option of not coming." He glanced at Dean before sitting at the table across from Sam. "What do you need?"

* * *

"Where did he come from?" Finch asked through John's earpiece.

John held a camera with a telephoto lens attached to it and continued taking pictures as he listened to the conversation between the now three men in the Winchester's motel room. "Nobody came in or out of the room," he said. He continued taking photo after photo of the man they called Cas as he passed the window.

"I'm sending you a photo. See if you can ID him."

"I'm on it."

"What do you need?" Cas asked.

"We've tracked something here, and we have no idea what it is," Sam explained as John listened. "Two bodies have dropped, and they have busted eardrums and a brain aneurism."

"And involuntary pooping," Dean added.

The line went silent for a short moment as Cas probably contemplated the situation. "Perhaps a witch?"

"You sound pretty hopeful," Sam replied.

"It's definitely something we know. I like things that I know," Dean said as he got to his feet.

"These cases are kind of clean for a witch, don't you think?"

Dean nodded. "Well, maybe it's a different kind of witch. One that doesn't like spewing bodily fluids everywhere."

"That does sound unlikely," Cas said.

Sam sighed. "Well, there's only one way to find out for sure if it's a witch or not."

"Finch," John said from his car that was parked across the street from the motel.

"James Novak," Finch said over the line.

"What?"

"The third man, the one they call Cas, I was able to identify as James Novak. Last known address was Pontiac, Illinois. But he's –

"Let me guess, he's been declared dead."

"Yes, leaving behind a wife and daughter. I've alerted Detective Carter. She's at the parking garage where Jackie was killed, and I have Detective Fusco at the bank in case the Winchesters decide to go back to either location."

"It's after hours, Finch. You think they'd try to break into a bank?"

"Mr. Reese, right now, I have no idea what these two are capable of."

"Three," John corrected. Right on cue, the three men exited the motel and got into the black Impala that was parked along the curb. "I don't know, Finch. I think we need to take a more aggressive approach with these guys. They're planning on killing whoever's responsible for Jackie's death."

"You mean the witch?"

John closed his eyes as he started the car engine and took a breath to keep his composure.

"We don't know that. Before we call the men in the white coats, we need to make sure of what they intend to do first."

"I want to make sure before anyone gets hurt," John said as he started following the Impala.

"Naturally."

* * *

The sun had set, leaving the city in a starless, overcast sky as the Impala pulled up next to the parking garage. It was decently lit, a few flickering lights here and there, but nothing seemed amiss as the Winchesters and Cas got out of the vehicle.

Sam and Dean dug around in the trunk for a minute, selecting whatever they might need. They shouldn't need much if they were hunting for hex bags, but you never knew. Cas leaned against the side of the car and watched a black Lincoln drive past and around the corner to the other side of the garage.

"Cas," Dean said. "We might need you to do a little reconnaissance."

Cas nodded and disappeared.

* * *

Detective Joss Carter sat alone in her car waiting for Finch to call her off so she could go home. She was parked on an outside row of the garage. Everything was quiet, and she was getting cold. She was about to call John and tell him that he'd have to come here himself if he wanted this staked out all night when a group of lights above her blacked out for a moment.

Carter sat in the semi-darkness, looking out her window as the lights came back on. It was at about that time that she heard a distant scream, bouncing off of the cement walls.

She scrambled out of the car, drawing her sidearm, and ventured slowly towards the center of the first level of the parking garage. The lights flickered overhead, creating shadows that leaped at her in her peripheral vision. The further she went in, the less light was available.

Pulling a small flashlight from her pocket, Carter held it in front of her with her gun.

"This is the NYPD," she announced to the shadows. "Come out with your hands where I can see them." She had little hope that her command would be heeded, but was thankful that the anxiety she was experiencing did not show in her voice.

The lights went out completely along with her flashlight. It flickered as Carter smacked it against her leg and shook it vigorously, but the light didn't return. She tossed the dead flashlight aside without losing her grip on the weapon.

Now the dark pressed in upon her, bringing scratching and whimpering noises echoing through the blackness. Carter ignored the noises, and kept her hands steady as her heart raced in her chest.

Detective Carter had been through a war; she'd seen enough things since working for the NYPD that would send your average civilian into an institution. She knew the difference between delusions caused by fear and actual scary people caused by reality.

This, unfortunately, was reality. Something was close by.

Carter moved past a thick support pillar and a couple of cars. She stopped when the darkness close by seemed to move. It could have been nothing. It was out of the corner of her eye that she saw the movement after all. But she focused on it, and although it was dark in the parking garage, there was something that was darker, if that were possible, very close to her.

She focused on it and narrowed her eyes. A faint outline of a figure came into view. It was massive.

The gun came up, and Carter's instincts kicked in. "NYPD, let me see your hands."

The figure did not move.

"Hands, now!" Carter demanded, her finger on the trigger.

It moved, faster than anything she'd ever seen. She fired off a round, but it had no effect. Carter was grabbed around her throat by cold, calloused hands and slammed hard into a parked car. Her windpipe was closing fast as it squeezed her throat with surprising strength.

The dark, hooded face came close to hers. "You have a beautiful soul."

Her eyes filled with tears as bursts of light flashed into her vision. Her feet were no longer on the ground, and her fingers pried at the hand around her throat to no avail. There was no one to save her. She was going to die, here, in this dirty garage, being choked to death by some jack ass in a Halloween costume!

Carter scratched and clawed, but the grip remained like a vice.

"Help – me," she wheezed quietly as her vision blackened.

Then, quite suddenly, someone else was there. Carter sensed him first before she tried to look. When she did so, all she saw was light. A bright white light filled the space they occupied. Carter squeezed her eyes shut as the grip around her throat loosened.

Whoever it was in front of her released a shrill scream that made her blood turn cold and Carter was freed.

Her feet landed back on solid concrete, and her knees buckled as she gasped for breath. The fall would not be pleasant, yet she knew it would be better than choking to death. But it never happened.

Something caught her. She was yanked to her feet, and pulled into an embrace.

"Hold on," a voice said in her ear as she felt a rush of air around her.

Carter felt her feet leave the ground once again, and gripped onto the clothes of whomever had hold of her. It lasted for only a second.

The next thing her bleary vision showed her was that she was outside the parking garage once again, breathing the night air, and looking up at a street light. She coughed and wheezed as her lungs tried to breathe in the entire atmosphere at once, and her rescuer pushed away from her.

She held onto his shoulders and blinked rapidly, her eyes trying to bring his face into focus.

"Are you all right?" The voice was low and rough.

He had dark, blue eyes, and dark hair, and was waiting for an answer.

Carter inhaled to answer, but only coughed again as her eyes streamed.

"Cas!"

The man held her steady as he turned. Carter looked as well. Two men were running towards them. They looked familiar, but she had more important things to worry about than remembering vague acquaintances.

"We can now assume that this is not what we believed it to be. The creature is in there," the man called Cas nodded to the parking garage when the two men reached them.

"Detective Carter?" The taller one, Agent Fox, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Did you see it, Cas?" The other one asked, Agent Lloyd. That's right, they were FBI. "What is it?" They didn't really look like FBI at the moment, in those boots, jeans and jackets.

Cas shook his head. "I can't be sure yet. I only heard Detective Carter ask for help."

"He was big. Really strong," Carter said. She released Cas, finding that she was able to stand on her own again.

"We'll check it out," Agent Lloyd said.

"Will you stay with her, Cas?" Fox asked.

"You will need me," Cas said flatly.

"We'll call," Lloyd yelled back as he was already entering the parking garage.

"I'm fine," Carter said, wiping her face and taking steady breaths. "Did you see his face? He was right in front of me, and I still couldn't see him for some reason."

"I did not see him either."

"Probably wearing some black out makeup or something. I've got to call for backup." Carter pulled her radio from her belt but Cas placed his hand gently over hers and the radio.

"This is beyond your police, I'm afraid."

"So you know what this is?"

"I'm getting an idea, yes."

Carter's eyes narrowed. Cas' face was unreadable, but she had a feeling that he was, or at least believed he was telling the truth.

"How did you get us out of there so fast?" She tested. "Did I black out for a minute there?"

Cas studied her, tilting his head slightly. "You were awake, Detective Carter."

"Then how – "

Loud shots cut through the air.

"That's gunfire!" Carter said, reaching for her sidearm, but the holster was empty. Her gun was still in the garage.

Cas' expression did not change. "I need to help them. Please, stay here."

He took a step away from her and disappeared.

Carter's legs felt weak again, and her breath shortened. "What in the – "


End file.
